


All The Songs Of Winter

by sparrowinsky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Historical Accuracy, Dark, Drunkenness, F/M, Medieval Medicine, Mildly Dubious Consent, Realistic, Unreliable Narrator, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/sparrowinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fate of the North is in the hands of children, but the North will always follow Starks. Rumors whisper of dragons in the south, and danger presses down from above the Wall, but Rickon and Sansa make of the world what they can.</p><p>Note: This is now being worked on again. Chapter 12 was rewritten to an entirely different ending, and Chapter 13 should be up this weekend. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter Is Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks x1,000,000,000 to my lovely beta faerymoon, just about the best idea-bouncing-board I've ever met.
> 
> If you spot any errors in spelling, grammar, or anything else, please let me know.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Alayne Stone stood at the edge of the world when the war was done._

_Ice beneath her feet and snow before her eyes, and it felt like home, the way a mountain's snow never had. The war was over and the winter just beginning… and too many people had asked her for a decision no bastard girl should have to make._

_Her fingers trembled as they had once before, on another precipice. She had claimed cold, then, a lie with inch of humid southern air it had taken to speak. Cold would be a truth here, but not **the** truth, and she was long done with lies._

_She pushed now as she ought to have pushed then, and felt Alayne slide away._

_Away, away, away, and over. Alayne fell as Lysa did, and Joffrey ought to have, and a trembling Sansa Stark descended the Wall in silence, as still and cold as the ice behind her._

***

A winter storm raged against the walls, but the hall of Winterfell was warm, packed full of living bodies. It was almost enough to make the ruin and destruction fade in Sansa’s eyes, just a bit. Silk banners, exquisite glossy grey, brushed against charred stone. Merry, in a place of misery. Hangings brought north from the Vale tried to conceal the damage, hangings she once might have exclaimed over, wonderfully embroidered and full of pure argent and sweet sky blues. Instead, they made it all the worse, like a harlot’s rouge paint upon a long-dead corpse. Nothing could disguise what a poor mockery of her home this hall had become.

Only the bodies, alive and hot and moving, made any difference. The hall thronged with men, highborn and low, blended together in a sea of grays and browns, the occasional house colors bright in the midst of it—surprising that those were not brown as well, considering the scents drifting in the warm air. It smelled as if not a one of them had bathed in weeks—she supposed armies on the march could not afford it. Thank the gods she had been spared that indignity, at least.

The men were alive and, it was claimed, hers. As if any of them but Littlefinger's clutch of men had come on her behalf; as if _she_ had taken Winterfell in place of her brother. As if she and Petyr and their half-dozen Vale lords wouldn’t have been slaughtered if Rickon had not arrived before them.

They were all Rickon's, the rest of them, his men and his wildling friends, fierce men gathered in some way she didn't understand and didn't want to. Sellswords, some, she was sure of it; others... 

Her eyes drifted, oftener than they should, to the tallest figure, a hooded man in the back of the hall. She had seen him fighting when they arrived-- late, so very late—fury and ferocity made flesh, a body more familiar to her dreams than to her memories. And she remembered him, oh yes, as Alayne never truly could.

It was a struggle for Sansa to keep her back straight, her face even. Every muscle in her body begged to curl her into a ball. Weeks of riding had turned to days of rushed activity, never a moment for breath since their arrival. They had narrowly avoided the battle, and she was glad for it, but other duties could not be escaped. A thousand men and more held Winterfell and Winter Town, and not one among them a steward. It had fallen on her to keep it all from chaos, though she had done it so quietly and well that few of them, even the lords, would ever know. There were, after all, some few things she could be grateful to Petyr Baelish for.

The surcease of activity she had desperately hoped for had come only in the form of this charade of Littlefinger’s, grand and eloquent though it was. Father- no, _Petyr_ \- paced the hall of Winterfell as he had since the earliest hours, as if he belonged, as if he had a right. As if it were not a ruin in the place of what once was mighty. He was magnificent, weaving a spell of words, a tight, glittering net to capture power in her name.

“My Lady,” he kept saying, my lady this and that and ought to and must do and should have, and _queen_ , the whisper beneath his words: Queen in the North. The hall rustled with every repetition, some thread of restraint keeping the ancient response buried and unspoken. _Queen in the North, Queen in the North._ Power and glory and old, old ways. They hungered for it, the winter lords, but they did not trust him, no; no more than Sansa did though sometimes a small voice murmured that she must--

“I abdicate.” Sansa's voice rang clear throughout the hall, surprising even her. She had risen, it seemed, and kept her bearing, conscious of all eyes upon her. Rickon became still and quiet in his seat beside her. The hall was silent, as if every breath had been stilled. They heard, she exulted, they heard and I am free.

Petyr was as a statue.

In the back of the hall, where much of Rickon's patchwork army had laughed and drunk and eaten these past days, a cowled man was the much the same.

***

_The Vale mourned much as its lords did, with the unrelenting fury of winter storms. Ill the boy was, ever was, sickly and ill and not like to live..._

_But Littlefinger's whispers fell flat before the mountain lords. He was the Protector of the Vale with nothing to protect; his tenuous hold stripped to a whisper of a thread with the death of a single boy._

_A mockingbird could fly away but a stone never will; so north he fled with his stone, to make a wolf of her once more._

***

Later, in her chambers, Rickon wept and screamed. He had seemed such a young man when they met, as foreign to her as her little Lord Robert had been when she came to the Vale, but before her eyes the brave boy-soldier had melted into boy alone. A young boy. Sansa felt as though she could barely remember being so young.

“I am not a lord, I will not be!” A wild fury danced about her chambers, in the place of the brother she'd once had. She tried to remember her baby brother has he was, but only the impression of Tully looks and a vague, hazy fortnight of tending him in a fever before the same illness had befallen her. 

She could not have been much older at the time then he was now.

This boy hardly seemed to be her Rickon. Sansa kept having to remind herself of it. He was as much a wildling as the woman who'd brought him home. A wolf made flesh, perhaps, though Summer was far better groomed. And he was a lord of men, now, when he was still a boy himself. He moved about her chambers as if he prowled, a tirade spilling from his mouth. Much of it seemed to do with kneeling, but Sansa was far too tired to pay it much attention. The day had been wearing, and seemed to grow interminably longer. The furs of her bed called to her as sweetly as the silk sheets of the Red Keep ever had.

Alayne would have tried to hold Rickon, to calm him, but that ghost was growing ever more still. The old Sansa, that foolish girl, might have raged herself-- had she been the sort of girl to do what had been done in the first place, to give up the power Littlefinger had wanted for her. Had she been anything but a fool for the glimmer of a crown and the murmur of pretty words.

Now she could only watch, and want to cry as he did. Or laugh, perhaps. Queen, Queen in the North, lady in the keep, mistress of Winterfell and the winter and the world... and that iron crown would have shortened her by a head much as it did Robb, that poor, sweet fool. Sansa had not been a fool in many years. She could have been Queen in the North, for true… a façade for Petyr’s games and a vessel he could use to keep pouring himself more and more power. Some lord would have been wed to her for King-Consort… slight of frame and sly of face, like as not, so the babes would never be questioned.

She would have given everything to be Queen, once. And then she had. The mere thought of it now put sour bile in her mouth.

Only when Rickon stopped before, breathing hard, her did she come back to herself. _His hair_ , she thought, avoiding the angry eyes behind the auburn curls she brushed away, _it needs cutting. This will never do for a lord._

***

_Honor, Duty, Family._

_She'd always been more a Tully than a Stark, as red and blue as the Riverlands could want. And just like any pretty little fish she swam downstream, and into the lion's waiting mouth._

_In her dreams it happens just that way, stripped clean of all the horrors. Down she swam but all that glittering gold was just a monster in waiting, and it ate the wolf and tried to eat her, but the dog made her into a bird and then ran away himself and then just like a bird she was caged, the better to hear her sing; but she couldn't sing, she was only a stone, waiting for the river to polish her clean._

_Honor was a lie and Duty a burden; she'd struggled for both until her heart bled dry, and what’s a Tully to do when there's no Family left?_

_She could have flown, as Lysa did- it was such an easy thing to do. The mountain air would swallow her songs forever._

_Or she could run, run north, and close her eyes to the way it turned her wings to paws. She would need those paws, this coat, these teeth grown sharp._

_After all, the truth could not be denied._

_Winter was coming._

***

It felt as though it could have been a lifetime spent in the Vale, for all the things Sansa had learned from it. How, for instance, to promise the easiest of things in return for the hardest.

_“Littlefinger has to go.”_ Rickon’s eyes had been so sullen, sure she would refuse to part from her... savior. 

_“You have to marry.”_ Rickon was never stupid. Not even in his tenth year, and he knew he needed his men bound to him with what rewards he could provide.

_“You have to teach me how.”_ As if she knew any more of ruling than the travesty of King's Landing. She had nearly refused. And yet-- 

Sansa might not know how to rule as a wolf, but she knew how to rule as a lion. She knew all of the things Rickon ought not do. All of it more than what he knew himself, the boy who still looked askance at bodies kneeling before him. 

It was the littlest of things, their agreement. The merest twitch of a smile, all Stark, that glanced between them. 

***

_Long summer, they say, means a long winter. A long, cold winter. Water freezes and gardens wilt, and the southern summers turn to ice. Blizzards rage against keeps and an army beats against the Wall. Winters can kill a man, a keep, a kingdom._

_They can never kill the North._

***

Rickon made a fine figure, his hair cut to his neck and his skin scrubbed raw. The bright Tully looks of his infancy had burned dark, and a true Stark gazed through those river-blue eyes. 

Sansa was still by his side, listening to her words fall from his mouth. They were such excellent words. Things like _traitor_ and _murderer_ and _suitable reward_.

Littlefinger's eyes never left hers, both pairs wide and blue, his in shock. Sansa's bore only complete innocence. She wondered what he imagined of this, if he knew how well he’d taught her. Every touch was perfect, and Rickon seemed born to his role. The youngest son, yet Lord of Winterfell.

Never let it be said Sansa couldn't learn. She could even imagine some admiration in Petyr’s eyes, as Rickon stepped down _(you must make them see you as a true Stark)_ to take Petyr's head.

_(Deep inside, Alayne screamed.)_

It took two swings to do the deed. Her Rickon was such a strong lad, a strong _man_ ; she must remember that. She must think of him as a man, as a lord, and blink away the image of Ned Stark tossing him high into the air of a sunlit courtyard. _We are neither of us children any longer._

That truth burned brighter than ever in the hall that night. Dinner was nearly over when Rickon rose from the table, lifting his goblet high, to announce his dear sister's marriage.

“To one of my lords,” he said. The hall roared with laughter and cheers, boisterous and bawdy. His voice was fine and clear and steady, carrying over their din… and silencing it, when the words “Sandor Clegane, who fought at my side when few others would-“ fell from his lips

Sansa's gaze sought the back of the hall, where the man always stood (as if the distance could disguise that form) half expecting his gray eyes to meet hers in shock. Truthfully, she wasn't surprised when all she saw was the rough wool of his cloaked back as he fled.

She felt she endured the rest of the feast with remarkable equanimity. There was something delightfully mischievous in deferring all the astonished questions and well-meaning pity towards Rickon's stern face, watching grown men wilt before the boy.

He was hiding behind that expression, of course, much as she kept her eyes polite and interested above the rim of her cup. He learned his lessons so well.


	2. Family, Duty, Honor

Sansa had always been an excellent seamstress. Needlework was her forte, the more delicate the better. In the Eyrie there had been little call for the talent, beyond hemming and darning and the occasional recreation from one of Aunt Lysa's dresses, but Winterfell even in the depths of winter called for more joy than that rocky place ever had.

 

Sansa turned her talents to a pair of cloaks now: her own, gray and white and silver like the landscape from her window; his, the yellow and black of house Clegane. He'd need new colors, soon enough; Rickon meant to give him the Dreadfort in the east, when they married. He'd be a northern lord, now, her own northern lord.

 

She was content to sew her maiden's cloak, turning an old gray dress into a wolf artfully covering the cloak’s lingering stain of blood. What soot refused to leave the fabric, she turned to curling ribbons of silver and gray with a touch of thread. The rest was easy- a delight, even- though not so elegant as what might be seen in King's Landing. Might have _been_ seen, before this long winter. Sansa found it amused her to imagine southern ladies shivering in their bowers, though her old septa would have been quite shocked by it.

 

She wondered if it really ought to fall to her to embroider her husband's cloak as well, but there was a dearth of women in Winterfell, and those few didn't have the skills to complete the cloak to Sansa's strict requirements.

 

Silk was hard to come by; what little trade came between storms was nearly all for the most basic of things. Food, most especially. In the end she found a dress that must have been her aunt Lyanna's, packed away in a dusty corner, a shade more Baratheon in its gold than she might have liked but useable all the same. It took some creativity to turn the slim dress into a suitable cloak, but there was little and less for her to do in Winterfell most days.

 

There was no point in looking for Sandor. He had avoided any chance of meeting her since Rickon's announcement. Likely he intended to refuse her for some silly reason or another, but Sansa would hold firm. No matter what the man claimed, he was too honorable for his own good.

 

And...

 

These halls held ghosts, it seemed. She rounded corners and saw Arya slipping around the next; at times she would swear she heard Robb and Jon and Theon in the yard, playing at swords. She couldn't help but see Bran run along the battlements, nor quite strike the image of him falling from her mind. The sept held a breath of her mother beneath the incense.

 

The godswood was worst of all; every stir of wind through the weirwood's leaves left her aching for her father, her true father. She half expected every moment to turn and see him sitting beneath its leaves, a quiet smile on his face. Sansa had tried to pray beneath the tree, as he had done, and Jon and Arya too at times, but received only the whispers of the wind in return. The gods had never been kind enough to answer her, neither the southron Seven nor the northern trees.

 

She wondered, oft-times, if the Watch's fire-priestess had it all aright, and gods old and new were mere myths. It would break her heart if it were true; perhaps the weirwoods and their faces had always seemed more story than scripture, but the Seven... she had believed in them for so long: the Seven and their songs and all they implied.

 

It would be easier to be like Sandor and believe in little at all.

***

 _Hard enough for folks to gather in a summer's soft winter; nigh impossible with the sky a mask of white. Still, the bannermen came, slogging through the depths of winter's sullen slush to reach Winterfell. It could near break a heart, the loyalty of those left standing._  

 _Few enough were._  

 _***_  

Winterfell never took the cold as harsh as others, but only by grace of Rickon's wildling's was there anything approaching a wedding feast. 

Seven-hundred and seventy-seven courses there would not be. Sansa might have wished for such a thing, a handful or a hundred years ago, but that little girl had been as much a fool as anyone. Summer's Sansa, she was, a bright and flighty little thing, stupid and naïve.  

Winter's Sansa was content with the seven courses Winterfell's stores could provide. Rickon was kind in granting it; as lord of Winterfell ( _and more a lord every day, learning and growing and brilliant in ways she never imagined)_ , he could easily have required the food be kept for leaner moments. He might have denied her the wedding she wanted, as tangled in the old ways as he was, but when she asked for seven and a septon, he had grinned and laughed and asked how he was to get her maiden's cloak off her back. 

Sansa returned his smile and suggested he might strike his growth before that time; in her heart she knew she would kneel _(as she never would before)_.  

( _Alayne could weep for what Rickon was, what her Sweetrobin might have been with that kind of strength._ ) 

Nearly, but not quite. 

*** 

_Seven courses and seven maids and a septon, all before a tree; not the grandness she had dreamt of but the sweetest wedding she could have._  

 _The courses were drawn from summer's richness, a bright streak of color through winter's grays: bright golden broth, glass-house greens, rich red meat hunted from the forest._  

 _The women were near as bright, though wild and fierce; and as likely to be maidens as Sansa Stark was to take up the veil of a septa._  

 _***_  

There were few enough ways to leave Winterfell, these days, and it seemed to amuse Rickon to prevent Sandor Clegane from using any of them. 

Worse yet, that silent man was brought to the front of the hall, when formal matters were at hand, and referred to as  _m'lord_  no matter how he grumbled. 

Sansa was nothing less than delighted by it all. His subdued fury might make the higher lords look askance, as much as his origin as Joffrey's dog brought a frown to their mouths, but she found it nearly charming. He loathed all the politics, nearly as much as she did herself; the only difference between them was the skill he lacked, and she seemed to have in spades. 

 _(It ought to, perhaps, have been terrifying how deeply wild Rickon seemed to share that trait.)_  

Thought it could be said that she likely shouldn't have giggled the first time one of the lords had called him  _ser_.  

It really had been a frightful mess. 

*** 

 _The product of a thousand years and more could hardly be rebuilt in one, but let it not be said it was for any lack of Lord Rickon’s trying._  

 _His grandsire's ambitions had been called southern; that man’s namesake was all for the north. Wildlings and wolves the lot, the southern lands whispered. As dangerous as the winter itself._  

 _Stone by stone and beam by beam, until the stronghold began to resemble itself once more._  

 _Day by day and hour by hour, the winter passing all in a sameness._  

 _***_  

It was maddening to be betrothed when the other party constantly evaded you. 

It would have been simple enough for Sansa to wait, letting the days slide by until her wedding, but a part of her wanted to speak to Sandor. She'd thought he would come around to it after the initial shock, that he would realize it was more than political expedience or a reward from Rickon and come to her. 

It seemed that was not the case after all; for a man built not so unlike his brother, Clegane could keep himself well-hidden from her prying eyes with astounding skill. Not, it must be said, that she was trying  _so_  very hard. The wedding  _would_  be here soon enough, and... looking did make her wonder. Perhaps that wildfire-lit kiss had meant less to him than it had to her. A grown man would hardly cling to such a memory, as drunk and furious as he'd been. It was the sort of thing only a girl would hold to, a foolish girl... 

No, it brought too many doubts to chase him down, and there was merely a month or so left to wait. She'd be wed in as much of a summer as this Winter would allow, and meanwhile there were ravens to send for Rickon; the boy had such trouble with his letters still, but what could be expected from a boy raised so wild? 

Letters to write, to the south and to Jon; the Wall was still in need, and Winterfell would provide.


	3. What Dogs Do To Wolves

_Summer's Sansa had always imagined a princely wedding. All of King's Landing would gather, cheering her. She was a beauty, they'd always said so, mother and father and the queen. She would wear the most beautiful blue dress, white flowers in her hair, looking like the Maiden herself. Her betrothed would be tall, and handsome, and cover her with his fine cloak, all jeweled and embroidered, red and gold..._

_Red and gold..._

_The red bled out and the gold was hard cold metal, that was all, and it ought to have been a cloak of black and gold, black and gold because she was to be a princess..._

_It would be black and gold._

* * *

All the lords and ladies of the north gathered in her father's godswood, colorful in their formal garb but altogether too somber, smiles and blessings given with a grudging air. They had to be there, of political necessity as much as anything. Too many of them had demanded, in their cups, that Rickon take an iron crown... it would have been dishonorable to avoid the celebration of his sister's wedding. Not a few had thought to hear their name at the end of Rickon's announcement... and their eyes showed how it rankled that Joffrey's dog was chosen.

Rickon's wildlings were a wealth of contrast, all in browns and grays and all of it wool, but laughing and singing as if it were the world's best party.

The weather was kind, at least. It was cold, always cold, but the year's long storms had let up at last. The day's gray skies had relented, and thin winter sun streamed through the trees, burning away the lingering morning mist. It felt clean, and crisp, the right sort of day for a beginning.

Sansa stood beyond the pool, Rickon at her side, and waited. The sun crept towards its zenith, and she ought not have had to wait this long.

“We spoke,” Rickon had said, when she asked about Clegane. Something in his tone was dark, and she let it lie. Rickon would not betray her. Sandor would come, all in his fine clothes and cloak she had spent so many months making.

She waited and waited, and the crowd began to grumble. Sansa couldn't help but feel her chest begin to tighten, her lungs fighting her for the breaths she took-- he wouldn't come, she was wrong after all, and she'd be left as the fool she'd so often felt herself to be--

It was often cheers and acclamation that greeted a groom when he arrived to the wedding; laughter and deep growls were quite a leap from that tradition.

Sandor came through the trees, yes, but his face was dour, and at his heels was a face that had grown familiar to her. Shaggydog plagued his every step, green eyes bright. In his mouth, and not on Sandor's back, as it ought to be, was the black-and-yellow cloak she'd so laboured over, the hem damp as it brushed over grass.

She could see the hint of a smirk on Rickon's face, from the corner of her eye.

Sandor fumbled in putting the cloak around his shoulders; his body was stiff, every muscle locked but for a single one in his cheek, twitching wildly. He looked uncomfortable, awkward, and she felt sorry for him--

But then there was little time to feel anything at all. Rickon walked her up quickly, and gripped Sandor's arm before stepping to the side.

( _Almost as if he was a man grown, the kind Robb and Bran would have been.)_

All the rest was a blur, feeling the wolf slide from her back to be replaced by House Clegane's running dogs. She hazarded a glance at Sandor's face, time and again; it was no help, his scarred face angry, puzzled, and terrified by turns, all she had learned of reading men lost to her in this moment. She could think of nothing above the drumming beat of her heart.

The ceremony took an hour at most, though Sansa herself couldn't have said if was moments or years. The feast that followed settled her somewhat. The courses were simple, but prepared with an unexpected elegance. A clear golden broth and hot bread warmed the aching bones of the assembled folk, then greens from the hot-houses with oil and salt. The meat that followed was almost too rich in comparison, and the redness it leaked onto her plate unsettling.

Only slightly, though. This was her wedding, her _true_ wedding, and it was to be a _celebration_. The warm mulled wine in her cup would settle any twitch of her oft-drifting mind. The stiff, sour figure seated to her right was by no means allowed to dampen her mood, however he might glower.

( _No_ , she whispered fiercely to the thought that slid through her mind. _He **does**_ _want this too!)_

 Any worry Sansa might have felt flew away, late in the evening. _(Away away on wings of black)._ A group of Night's Watch arrived at the gates, and the assembled company had consumed enough alcohol to greet them as long-lost brothers. Some of them might have been; she felt sure a few of those black-clad men had been born beyond the Wall.

They had gifts with them, carried south from Castle Black. Sandor looked like he wanted to become one with his chair as a direwolf pup was placed in his lap, all bristling fur and happy wet tongue.

Sansa couldn't bring herself to move when they placed her sister, a bundle of soft gray and yellow eyes, into her arms. The wolfling stared back at her, head cocked to the side.

( _Oh, my love.)_

The tight feeling in her throat wasn't something she felt like thinking about, just at that very moment.

The feast went on, more for the crowd than the couple. Sansa fed delicate bits of her meal to the pup in her lap, pretending not to notice when Sandor did the same (though his own direwolf had been relegated to the floor beside him.)

Evening was a memory and morning within distant sight when the word “bedding” began to murmur through the room. Soon enough it was a chant, accompanied by stamping feet and whooping calls.

It wasn't their tradition, but the wildling women were game enough, joining the noble ladies in heading for Sandor. He slammed his eating knife into the table before they could lay hands on him. He stood so quickly that his wooden chair fell backwards onto the stone floor, clattering harshly in the quiet that had fallen.

( _A knife into a table and all the crowd stopped, a bedding that never was.)_

The pup made no sound when Sansa's fingers tightened in her fur.

The silence in the hall was awful, unnatural. Sansa carefully tucked the nervous, queasy feelings into a box in the back of her mind, and gave the assembled her best smile. She could do nothing about the man striding way from the table, husband though he might me. The silent stares of the faces before her, that she _could_ affect.

“You will not find me so against tradition, my lords.”  Sansa rose from her chair with all the grace she possessed, her smile full of invitation. She had barely enough time to kiss a blushing Rickon on the cheek and hand her wolf pup off to him before she was pulled away. Their cheer was forced, but soon enough it became the bawdy spectacle a bedding so often was.

* * *

 _Sansa had thought the bedding a naughty, exhilarating experience as a child, and then it became a terror, and then an unpleasant duty she would have to attend to--_ but every other man she might have bedded was dead or gone, and she had been so very well trained. Littlefinger would have been proud.

* * *

The wildling men took to the custom like flies to honey, laughing and singing and carrying Sansa along, far and away outdoing the lordlier men. At first they thought to rip her dress from her body, or cut it, but she distracted them with sly smiles and returned their japes, rose-cheeked and giddy with the thrill of it. She did allow them to unbutton her sleeves, which turned quickly to unlacing her gown, and by the time she was deposited in her chambers she wore little but her smallclothes and thin linen chemise.

By custom she ought to have been dumped into the sumptuous furs of her bed. By that same custom her husband should have been there before her, as little clothed and as much flushed. Instead they released her just inside the wooden door, cowed by Sandor's furious glare. Her bedding party departed with the most unseemly alacrity in the face of his near-palpable irritation.

Instead of bare-chested and in bed, as she'd expected- hoped- ( _dreamed of_ -) he stood by the window, his only concession to the moment a discarded doublet. ( _On the floor, as if the weeks she'd spent sewing golden flowers into the trim were nothing at all)_. She felt cooler, all of a sudden. That visage dampened _her_ spirits, too.

“ _What_ ,” he snarled suddenly, voice near-shaking, “the bloody _buggering_ seven hells do you think you're doing?” He spun on booted heel and slapped his hand against the wall, the sound reverberating through her. The tone was as startling as the realization that this was the first time he had spoken to her— _directly_ to her—in close to five years.

Sansa flinched, shivered ( _only the cold, it must be the cold_ ). She'd expected confusion, irritation- something must have kept him away from her for all these long months- but fury? It made her want to run, her throat tight with fear, but she took one shuddering breath and then another, and approached him cautiously.

“A protector, he says, idiot boy. You've had your wedding, your pretty little parade. And you let them put their hands on you? Some protector.” It was as if he didn't know she was there, though of course that couldn’t be so. Then his voice turned soft, and she fancied there was a thread of hurt in it. “I've been his since that mess at Moat Cailin; there was no damned need to do this.” She could feel the heat coming off him, as warm as the guest-house walls. It would be so easy to reach out and lay a hand on his arm, perhaps she should-

“You've had your wedding. I'll stay here for the night, let them think you're bedded and it can't be undone. You'll have some shred of what you want, little bird. I'll not make you suffer my touch. When we're gone to whatever pile of stone your brother wants me to keep for him, take who you fancy. Whatever pretty knight you want to tumble with, to get a babe in you--”

It was as though he'd slapped her, the strangled pain in his voice-- did he imagine her unable to hear it? -- almost rocking her on her heels. She knew shouldn't, she truly did knew better, but--

“I _wanted_ you!” --she couldn't help but to blurt it out.

Sandor whirled, a blur of flesh and cloth her eyes can't track. He was so huge, so strong, she was like a doll in his hands. It was child's-play for him to grab her and swing her about, near slamming her against the wall.

“You want what, little bird, _what_?  Must you push? Rickon has what he wanted, and you'd a day of silk and sunshine, and I'll not hold you to any of it, so what is it you want? A dog in your bed? Idiot girl.”

Sansa felt so small between him and the walls of Winterfell. Small, but warm. Afraid... but not so _very_.

“I want you, of course I do. You kissed me by wildfire and you left your cloak. You gave me your cloak. How could I be anything but yours?”

He leaned closer, hands hot and rough on her shoulders. “Kissed? I never kissed you, girl. I'd meant to take you, but I never kissed you.”

Something snapped in Sansa, the last vestige of summer dreams sliding away with a sharp chill like river-water. She brought one hand to her throat, slow, never letting her eyes drop from his. Her fingers tugged gently to loosen the laces of her shift.

“You can, now.”

She hadn't the words to describe the sound he makes then. “...I can _have_ you? When your brother gave you this dog as a guard? I'd meant to _rape_ you, little fool, and now you tell me I can _have_ you?”

Sansa could feel laughter bubbling, burning like bile in her throat. As if she hadn't known, deep within, what he'd wanted from her that night? She'd been a foolish child, but not so foolish as all that.

She loosened her laces a bit more, put her other hand on his chest. Sandor turned with her, as quickly as he'd grabbed her at the start, three quick strides taking them across the room. She was dumped into the bed before she could catch another breath.

Perhaps she ought to have kept silent, but-- the way her words work on him, drawing so many reactions—it was exhilarating.

“What--” Sansa let her voice break on the word, and swallowed hard, letting him see the twinges of fear she felt. “What would have happened, if I'd gone with you?”

He laughed, such as it was, the harsh bark appropriate to a man once called The Hound. “If you'd never sung that damned song, you mean.” His eyes were terrifying. “I'd have taken you. _Raped_ you, like the monster I am.”

She ought to have sewn her mouth shut, for all the good it was doing her. She should have been as silent as a sister in a sept-- but oh, how tempting it was to simply rise to her knees and look him straight in the eyes. It was impossible to resist.

“And now, my lord husband, you _can't_. I've been wed once before, and nearly twice, and never a bedding.” Her hand dragged the top of the chemise down, baring her breasts. “And I'm a woman grown, not the little bird whose throat you held a knife to. A woman married. Even a _dog_ should know what do with me.”

There wasn't even a moment between her words and being slammed down, down, flat on her back-- his hand at her throat and knee between her legs. He meant to kill her, she'd gone too far--

Sansa stroked the burns of his face, her hand moving while her mind was still frantic.

His anger seemed to cool. The gray eyes that had been dark with fury and perhaps lust, now just stared. He seemed as awkward as a boy.

“...I'm no lord. I know what your brother did-- there's few enough he can trust, though how in all the hells he thinks I'm one of them--”

“I asked for you.” It was most troubling, the way her lips and body were acting before her mind knew what to do. She hadn't meant to say that, not at all, but he'd looked so _sad_. It was terribly unlike the dreams she'd had of a confident Hound and-- other things. Other, disappointingly vague things. Still- she'd started, she might as well salvage it. “I _asked_ for you. I'm not such a fool, anymore. Do you think--” ( _I don't love you?)_ “-- anyone else would take me? I'm not heir to Winterfell, and the Dreadfort is near a curse. If they don't think me the Imp's whore--” Oh, how charming, the way his eyes widened at that word falling from her lips! “--they certainly think me Littlefinger's. I want a husband, and children, and...”

Should she push? Yes. He needed it.

“...and a man between my legs. Or a Hound.”

Certainly his shaky breath was a good sign. _Hers_ was simply the weight of him atop her, of course. That's all.

He rose, stripping his clothes as if they burned his flesh. It was hot enough in the room, perhaps they did. Certainly her skin was as flushed and pink as if it were the height of summer. Fear tugged at her, but she was far too distracted by the tightness in her belly to give it any mind.

That tightness turned to a shiver as he flung his shirt away, muscles playing under his skin. She'd always known him to be strong, but bared he was glorious. Dark hair curled against his bare skin, as black as what fell into his face when he reached for the fastening to his trews.

Her breath caught in her throat-- _so dry, suddenly-- this room really is unbearably hot--_

_Oh. The hair goes all the way down._

Sandor was as gentle as he could be when he dropped back onto the bed, hand brushing her hair with sweet softness. Sansa couldn't think what to do with her hands, finally settling them on his shoulders. She hoped she looked willing, wanting... anything but unsure and uneasy and utterly _stupid_. It was truly nothing like the stories at all. 

His hands on her flesh were like drops of sunlight, like molten gold, pulling undignified whimpers from her. The hardness against her thigh was terrifying-- surely he can't have been as big as he looked-- oh, he'd split her apart.

He nearly did. She'd become damp enough between the legs to make it easy for him, sliding in, but it was nearly intolerable for a moment. Stretching and pushing and so unbearably hot. In fact she barely noticed when he ripped past her maidenhead in one hard thrust, the pain not nearly what she'd been told. It ached, but... oh, but it was good.

He closed his eyes but she never did, watching his face as he moved within her.

It was obvious he was holding back, and it could only be for her benefit. He struggled to move slowly, but before long he was rocking against her hard, quickly, panting as though he fought a battle. She felt it when he spilled, a burst of liquid fire in her, nearly matching the feeling in her chest as her name fell from his lips in a whisper.

Time held still, just for a moment, before he rolled off of her, trembling. Her own breath came fast, her pulse quick and the heat within her tangling into a ball of _need._ She'd used her own fingers often enough to know she hadn't spent; more than enough time to take care of it with a quickness.

She hoped he was still insensible when the high-pitched moan left her, that he couldn't feel the way she shook under his arm.

He rolled away.

It was freezing, suddenly. The beads of sweat on her skin felt like ice. She reached for his hand, grabbing tight.

“I'm cold.”

His grumble could have meant nearly anything, but he dragged her up the bed with him, fumbling to cover their bodies with fur and blankets. She didn't relinquish his hand, refusing to shift until he relented to her body against his, soaking in the heat from his chest. She pulled the hand down against her stomach, lacing her fingers tight with his, so he couldn't roll away from her in the night.

Later, sure he must be long asleep, she whispered-- just to try it out-- “I love you.”

After a moment or two, he leaned his face against her hair. “And if I don't?”

 _(You're a liar_.) It's the cold, only the cold, that raised bumps along her arms. “You will.”


	4. Always Summer In Songs

_Winters turned the north stark, a grim landscape of grays and whites. Even the brightest day seemed drained of color. Aleyne would have hated it so._

_Sansa loved the Winter. Summer had stolen the flame of her innocent youth like a candle in a storm. Summer had robbed the world of all good things, of her mother and father and so much else._

_There was but one Stark in Winterfell now. Only one in all the world._

* * *

Sansa no longer expected life to resemble a ballad; true romance was a sweet story, but little else. She had grown up. She knew, in these cold days, that even her parent's beautiful love had taken work. More work, she suspected, than she had ever imagined as a girl.

Still, songs aside, she had at least expected to _wake up_ beside her husband on her first morning as a wife. The dawn shimmered on the edge of night, soft pink beginning to stream through the window she did not remember leaving unshuttered. The bed remained pleasant, though the room was cool. She felt well-rested, if sticky with sweat and... other things. Only one thing kept the morning from being happy: where her husband should have been was a mere depression in the blankets, only a faint warmth betrayed that he had been there at all.

Sansa waited, leaning picturesquely against the pillows. Perhaps he'd stepped out to the privy. As an hour passed by, she had to admit that as unlikely. Perhaps, then, some emergency had called him to Rickon.

\--what emergency could require Sandor and not her? And she had been a light sleeper for some years now; no frantic knocking could have awoken the Hound and left her in slumber.

A thousand scenes played through her mind, each worse than the last. At first she imagined him hurt, ill, perhaps challenged to a duel by a lord who contested his right to marry the only daughter left to Winterfell-- but surely Sandor would have cut such a man quite in two. From the edges of her mind, that hazy place were Aleyne Stone sometimes still haunted her, darker and more insidious ideas began to creep in. She had been unsatisfactory. She was still a girl, such a little child. He had killed before she'd even been born. How could she imagine he might want her? How could she _ever_ have thought such stupid, clumsy fumblings at her chemise, ridiculous declarations of love, how could she have thought that they might win his heart? Of course he was gone. He had done his duty and then gone off to some experienced _whore_ in the bones of the winter town once his wife was safely asleep.

She was still busily imagining every sordid detail of the Hound's purchased woman and the acts they might engage in when the doors to her chamber opened. Her maid came striding in, looking harried, Rickon with an armful of direwolf pup mere steps behind her. With a startled blink, Sansa realized it was nearer to midmorning than dawn.

Rickon's scowl was a heartbreaking mirror to Eddard’s, and oh, she couldn't do this yet. She hadn't prepared, she hadn't dressed, she was as naked soul and body as she could possibly be. Panic beat Sansa's heart against the confines of her chest, her hands clutching the furs to her chest in confusion. She was far too much Sansa and not enough Stark. It was unfair. She didn't have her armor on.

Even the puppies deposited into her bed, even the maid briskly drawing a bath, could not soothe her mind. Rickon’s words did little and less towards that end.

“Lord Fenn thinks he’s my steward. Apparently I have three bottles of Dornish sour missing, and a bottle of something somebody gave a Stark too bloody long ago. And your husband took them. And he’s asleep on the battlements.”

“You shouldn’t use that word,” Sansa murmured, eyes wide. She tried to hear Littlefinger’s instructions—they so often whispered through her thoughts, showing her what she might have missed—but the dark-haired beauty she had crafted was all her mind could summon. “Who is Lord Fenn?”

“Black lilies on purple. Thinning hair and he smells like frogs.”

Finally latching onto a shred of wisdom, Sansa refrained from asking how Rickon knew what frogs smelled like. She could remember the banner lord he spoke of now, an insipid man whose ancient father had refrained from joining Robb in his war—with good excuse, for the man was frail and had passed away soon thereafter. The son had done nothing to rectify the situation, remaining holed up in his tiny manor near the marshes, only bringing his house to Winterfell when all but the sky was clear of danger. Such a _brave_ man, Lord Fenn, facing blizzards to show his support.

The imaginary woman was cleared from her mind in an instant, then, replaced abruptly with Roderick Cassel, Jory—even Hodor—no great lords, but men who had died for the North. For Starks. For her.

Sansa’s stomach turned, and she wondered if she would be able to remain sweet and ladylike, the next time she was faced with one of the lickspittles the great house of Stark had left for bannermen.

Better to leave that thought for another day. For now—

“—why is Sandor on the roof?” The puppies licked at her fingers and worried at the bedcovers, whimpering baby growls at her and each other.

“Three bottles of wine and a bottle of something undefined and apparently three centuries old. I imagine he’s drunk.” Rickon, she decided, was beginning to take far too much after her. And she had been granting her tongue far too much freedom around him.

And she absolutely refused to think about why her husband might be drunk and passed out on the walls of Winterfell.

* * *

_Sansa Stark had dreamt of being a princess, a queen, a lady. She had imagined herself the Maiden, courted by brave and strong Warriors. She remained the same, only changing as Sansa changed, but the Warrior could shift faces in an instant as her childish heart latched onto another “true love.” Such a fool, Sansa Stark._

_Sansa Clegane could hardly stand to be Lady of Winterfell._


	5. The Pack Survives

_Days slide past for a wife the same as for a maiden, time as fleeting for a lady as for a bastard girl. Plans to make and journeys to take, but the journey forever stalled by the plans. Too many questions need an answer, need a grown and confident man, too many problems need a Stark to solve. Too many lords look askance at a wildling boy and a dog's woman._

_***_

A year past, Sansa could not have imagined thinking fondly of the journey to King's Landing, not when what had followed could easily be called the worst years of her life. She had helped her mother a little, in the planning and packing, learning to be a wife and lady someday. It hadn't been difficult; enough food for the journey, accounting for unexpected delays and the possibility of being unable to stop at towns or keeps. Clothes, few and light, for the journey south. It had been almost fun, something of a puzzle.

Sansa had imagined planning the journey to her new home in much the same way. Lists and ideas crowded her head, as many of them jostling for notice as the footsteps that took her from her chambers to the storerooms. There she stumbled into the empty reality of the situation: they had been lucky to survive as well as they had thus far, for their winter stores were all but vanished. Thoughts of the Dreadfort were banished from her mind; there was work to be done before that goal could be reached.

* * *

_The Eyrie shivered in winter, even at the height of Summer; as the true Winter came, the influx of supplies stopped dead with the ice that froze the mountain peaks. Alayne had been so very good at stretching out those meager rations, dutiful in her attention to detail. All went hungry, but no one starved._

_In her heart, Sansa thrilled at the consumption of the last of the summer fruits; there were no more pomegranate seeds to be offered._

_***_

Hunting was no difficulty at all: flooded with wildlings as they were, no stretch of wood was safe. They were true northern folk, wiser than the lords who insisted on every bit of meat. The wildlings left some flesh walking; it was no use to eat this year and starve the next. Sansa could have kissed them, each and every one, for knowing it; her throat was rough and sore by the end of most days for explaining it to the nobility who had yet to depart.

The true trouble was greens and vegetables. The glass gardens had but a few panes unbroken. Even in the godswood, growing things suffered: only the weirwood remained untouched.

_(Sometimes Sansa fancied she heard speech in the wind blowing through its leaves; her father's strong voice, Robb's laughter, but most often Bran, whispering too quietly to truly hear.)_

She ordered the glass gardens rebuilt in the godswood, to keep them as warm as possible. In the end, though they boiled glue from the sinew of deer to repair four panes, only two full gardens could be reconstructed. It was no lasting measure; the glue would weaken in the first storm, and it was too much to hope that their careful bindings would hold up much longer.

Sansa dispatched a raven to Dorne, begging for glass, but it was less than likely that the good clear weather would hold long enough to receive any shipments. Even if they did, she hadn’t any idea of how to pay for them. It was the sort of thing to be thought of later, when it was a pressing matter. For now, at least she’d had a raven back from Old Town, agreeing to send to Maesters north: one for Rickon, here in Winterfell, and one to journey to the Dreadfort with Sansa and Sandor.

Her stomach gave a faint lurch whenever she thought of the Hound; he had begun drinking in earnest again, snapping churlishly at nobles and servants alike, snarling at Rickon when that young man tried to speak sense to him. He came to her bed, on occasion, drunk enough forget why he stayed away—not that Sansa could divine his purpose in that. He would take her: sometimes with a measure of skill, bringing cries of pleasure out of her; sometimes fumbling above her, finding only his own pleasure. As often as not, that pleasure was followed quickly by snores.

Once, she had awoken to a soft damp feeling against her cheeks. She had turned, quietly, and saw the Hound weep, never waking from his slumber. The sight had nearly broken her heart. She brushed the tears from his cheek, as gentle as she could be, and determined she would set aright whatever pained him so. _Something must tear at him_ , she thought, _that he wreaks such destruction on himself_


	6. From These Beginnings

Winterfell had survived another two blizzards in as many months, by the time the maesters arrived. They’d made good time up from Oldtown despite the weather, riding into Winterfell’s courtyard only a month after Sansa received the letter proclaiming their journey. They were as dissimilar from each other as they were from Maester Luwin—which sent a thrill of mistrust through Sansa as she and Rickon stepped out into the yard to meet them. She expected maesters to be old, withered, full of wisdom; even Pycelle had something of the grandfather about him. These new maesters, however, were much different. The younger could not have been more than five-and-twenty, a soft-faced boy that offered her a shy smile as he dismounted, a lock of his pale hair falling into his face. The other was darker-skinned, and much older. As a child she might have thought him genuinely ancient; as a grown woman, who had learned to see past her husband’s scars to the man beneath, she recognized that it was his dirty black hair and fixed scowl that aged him so. He hardly glanced around at Wintefell’s half-rebuilt walls before directing himself to Rickon.

“I am Alyn, sent north by the Citadel to act as your maester in Winterfell. My companion is Reinart, charged to journey to the Dreadfort with your sister.” His tone and demeanor were as sour as his expression. Sansa could see immediately that it little endeared him to Rickon, and stepped forward to fill the breach of courtesy.

“Why, you must have travelled quite fast, Maester Alyn, Maester Reinart. It is hardly two months since I had word of your coming. Please, come in to the hall; you must be quite chilled, and tired from your journey.” A wave of her hand brought servants forward to take their horses, as Rickon schooled his features into a more noble expression than a grimace. He simply nodded at the maesters, the perfect model of a young noble lord. He had something of Robb about him these days, his stern mouth belied by laughing eyes, and always so honorable. It courted memories she hadn’t thought of in years. When Robb had been that age—

No, she couldn’t afford distraction. The younger maester was speaking, his voice as gentle as his appearance. “Indeed, we left some weeks ahead of the letter, and made excellent time up the Kingsroad. Of course, we had to cut across the Reach, we daren’t go through King’s Landing itself, but Alyn has made a study of old maps, and truly there are a great many old roads, mere trails now, that made the passage quite easy. We encountered few enough folk on the road, and most content to let maesters pass on their way—“

She let his careless prattle carry them through the doors of the great hall, murmuring responses as appropriate. The direwolves tussled near the lord’s table, as they often did ( _sometimes in her dreams it is because here was the last time they were all together, all happy, smelling of joy and love_ , _but just dreams, just dreams_ ). They broke apart when the company drew near, Shaggydog and Sandor’s wolf eyeing the newcomers with distaste. Sansa was shocked, however, when it was her own Snowbloom that slid between her and the newcomers, a soft growl coming from the half-grown beast. The maesters stepped back almost in unison, their eyes gone wide. Rickon shot her a dark glance before he turned on his heel.

“Shaggy! Snow! Come on.” He clicked his tongue as he strode away, a harsh noise Sansa could not seem to master. The direwolves slunk after him, Sandor’s dark pup circling her once with a low whine before following the other two. The whole scene had given Sansa a shivery, tight-throated feeling. She almost felt as if someone stood behind her, ready to slip a knife between her ribs—but it was hardly something she could afford to focus on, however much she wanted to stare around the room. The welcoming hall seemed full of shadowy corners, just then.

“My lords, I apologize. There have been few newcomers in these past months, and Snowbloom is so very protective. She is a most loyal companion.” She drew the frayed edges of courtesy around her like a cloak, like a shield. Her face she forced into a relaxed sweetness, and if her voice was a bit tight, well, everyone was exhausted in winter.

“You must be weary,” she murmured. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

She had barely settled the maesters—reassuring them that the direwolves posed no threat and swearing to a disgruntled Alyn that he would have ample room to work, but truly, the Maester’s tower could not be a priority (it was very ill-mannered of her, but she was beginning to detest the man already) and she hoped the guest rooms of Winterfell would suffice for now—before Rickon cornered her on the stairs and all but dragged her to his chambers. Sandor was there already, slouched against the wall. His attention was given solely to the view outside the window, not even turning his head as she and Rickon entered.

“I don’t like them.” Rickon paced when he was angry, with sharp turns and quick movements, like an animal cornered. Sansa tugged at her dress, but the gesture was futile. _Lord of Winterfell_ indeed, he was still a little terror in some ways, and he had pulled her along so forcefully the stitching on her sleeve had come loose. “I don’t, and Shaggydog doesn’t. You feel it too, you must! You saw how Snowbloom acted.” He kept up his strides as he spoke. Sansa tried to meet her husband’s eyes, but he watched the young man pacing, the faintest of twists to his mouth.

“I saw how Snow acted, Rickon, of course I did. And I see how you act now. And I will say—it is not at all becoming of a lord. They are our guests and we must treat them with courtesy.” She was accustomed, after all these years, to the way Sandor snorted in derision when she spoke that word. It didn’t sting at all, now. Not at all.

Rickon spun towards her, eyes wide. Sansa saw, in that moment, that this would not end at all well. She thought of her behavior since coming to Winterfell; no, she had never refused him, not truly, not since abdicating her place in his favor. She had supported him, nurtured him, and it seemed he had expected her to do so always.

How she wished she could. She wondered if this was how her mother had felt, years ago, when she followed Robb south to war.

“With courtesy—courtesy? There’s something _wrong_ , Sansa!”

“Our direwolves taking a dislike to our maesters is wrong indeed. They’ve done nothing to deserve it. The war is over, Rickon, all of them. We have Winterfell, and the North. Why would Oldtown send someone untrustworthy to us? We have no southron ambitions, they must recognize that.”

“And if they aren’t the maesters that were sent?” Sandor’s comment, his tone little more than a growl, surprised her. He usually seemed to desire nothing more than staying out of Winterfell’s politics, and now he sided against her? Sansa’s fists curled tightly at her side, unladylike though it was.

“Yes! What if someone else sent them, Sansa? These are dangerous times.” Rickon spoke quickly, stepping closer to her, as if he feared her interruption. Indeed, she had been opening her mouth to speak as he’d begun.

“Then to acknowledge the possibility is the worst thing we could do. We cannot push their hand, if indeed there is subterfuge here. And I will not have discourtesy in Winterfell. I will not!” she was near to snarling at him, and his face was a mask of shock. “You are lord, Rickon. You are Lord of Winterfell! I daren’t imagine what you learned among the wild folk, but you are a Stark, and you will act like one. Can you imagine father acting so rude to guests, or throwing about wild suspicions behind their backs?”

“Father is _dead_. It doesn’t matter what he would have done, because he got himself killed, and so did mother, and you’re not them, you have no right—“

The room fell utterly silent after the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek. Rickon was still as stone, head turned away from her. It gave her an excellent view of the quickly reddening mark on his pale skin.

“…Rickon, I—“ Her voice seemed to spur him to motion. He slipped easily past her as she reached out for him, slamming the door on his way out with such force that the wood trembled in its frame. Sansa felt bile rising in her throat, the heavy, sick feeling of guilt settling in the pit of her stomach. She should go after him—but he was fast, and knew so many more places of hiding than she did.

“Ill done, little bird.” The rumble of her husband’s voice startled her, sending an unpleasant shiver through her limbs. She’d forgotten, in the midst of argument, that he was in the room. “He won’t forgive you for that, not quickly.”

“No, I don’t imagine he will.” Her voice shook. She swallowed once, twice, and spoke again. “He will behave, though, simply to prove to me he can.” She remained turned towards the door, even as he moved across the room to stand behind her. She could feel the heat from his body. “And I don’t imagine I will forgive you any sooner. For a man with no interest in running a keep, you seem to interfere at the most inopportune times.” She could not keep the cold cruelty out of her voice, but it was better than the tears that threatened. She gave him no more a chance to respond then Rickon gave her, sweeping out the door with her last shred of dignity before fleeing to her chambers. She hardly closed the door behind her before emotion became overwhelming. Sansa Clegane slid to the floor and wept.


	7. White Winds Blow

The train setting off for the Dreadfort is not so unwieldy as the one Sansa remembers going south, all those years ago. They have little enough to pack, Winterfell having little and less to spare. Even the horses are few, enough only for the carts and wagons and a handful of sworn shields. The balance of what to take and what to leave behind had stolen hours of sleep from Sansa, hours she could ill afford to lose. Her large bed was always slightly chilled, for Sandor had not come to her once since their fight, and she often found herself tumbling from it in the earliest hours of the morning, feet growing icy on the stone floor as she was sick into a basin.

She counted some small victories, despite the sleepless nights leaving her so very tired and ill-at-ease. Rickon had come around, slowly, and began treating the maesters with the respect due guests. Careful planning and a hectic bout of hunting by the wildlings left her convinced their rations would last the trip without shorting Winterfell.

The hardest-won triumph she held dearest of all. All the wiles and wits Alayne learned at Petyr’s hands didn’t avail her, though for a fortnight she spoke to the maesters at length, suggesting so cautiously and carefully that perhaps Alyn would be better suited to the Dreadfort, and Reinart to Winterfell.

She would never admit it to Rickon or Sandor—not if she lived through a hundred winters—but she trusted the dark maester little more than they did. His demeanor put her on edge, and though Rickon treated him with equal respect, she could see how his eyes would narrow just a hint, his shoulders tighten, when he spoke to the man. It seemed reasonable, then, that he ought to accompany them, if she could manage to make it happen. She had no intention of forgiving Sandor, at least until he made amends, but she still trusted him to protect her if it came to it. If the maester truly was nefarious, she knew Sandor would have his head in short order.

It had been near accident that won her cause, a last attempt merely two days before their journey was due to begin. Sansa had become violently ill, and gone to the maester for a tonic of some sort. She knew she had been eating poorly, and sleeping worse… she recalled, faintly, that one of the older servants at the Eyrie had been afflicted by an ulcer of the stomach. She had heard it attributed to his nervous nature and poor sleeping habits, and could not help but admit to herself that she greatly resembled him in her current state, worrying over even the smallest things. The thought was terrifying—the man had frequently seemed absolutely agonized, though admittedly she had never seen him retching violently as she had been.

She had gone to the maester’s study, in what little remained of Maester Luwin’s tower. The charred wood and stone had been cleaned up, but truly the tower was make-shift still. They had put off repairs until now, but part of her mind could not help but begin planning the necessary supplies as she stepped into the chamber he was using. It truly was no suitable place for a maester, ruined as it was.

It did not occur to her, until she stood before the man, breathing the faint fumes of whatever he was boiling upon the fire, that she could simply ask him to come with her. She would need a reason, of course, and a good one—

The flash of insight was so sudden and complete that Sansa lit a candle to the Crone that evening, thanking her for the wisdom provided. (For good measure, she thanked the weirwood, too, curling amongst its roots for a brief moment of rest the following morning.)

“I have been sick,” she murmured, and though Maester Alyn had not turned about when she entered, he did not seem startled when she spoke. Nor did he respond, merely stirring the concoction before him. It smelled faintly of lemon.

“I have been very sick, of late” she began again, stepping close to a shelf full of strange bottles. “Do you know anything of my mother, Maester? Or her sister, Lysa Arryn?” A bright blue bottle had caught her eye, shaped like the tail of a fish. She let her fingers glide over it, wondering what could be inside.

“I have heard that your mother was a beautiful woman, and I am told you resemble her. Your aunt married Jon Arryn and then some lesser lord, who rumour claims was the death of her. Is there something else I should know?” His voice, when he finally responded, was quiet but carried a faint, sharp edge. Sansa refused to let it deter her.

“Yes, Maester. Lysa bore one living child, and sickly, out of seven.” She did not know if it was true, but Lysa’s miscarriages were common knowledge; Maester Alyn could not possibly know the number of them. “My mother bore five living children, and we were all very healthy, ser; but she was with child sixteen times.”

He had glanced at her, then, and she wondered if his expression was interested or merely annoyed.

“My family, it seems, does not carry babes easily. My lord, I have been ill nearly every day of the past twelve; I worry that I may be with child. And even if I am not… Maester, what happens when I am?”  

She stepped close to him, then, and dropped her gaze to the floor, letter her hair—down and loose in northern fashion—drift into her face in a manner she knew made her look young and helpless. She placed a hand carefully upon her belly.

“Maester Alyn, there is an iron link upon your chain, and brass, and two of copper. And also, ser, four of silver, where Maester Reinart—I do not wish to cast aspersions, but Maester Reinart has none. I have been sly about the subject, not wishing to be forward, but now I must ask—I will beg, if you wish it of me. It is my terror that I will fall pregnant along the journey, or at my new home, and miscarry badly, or have some form of complication. Please, accompany us. Come to the Dreadfort, and be my maester; I beg you, ser, I beg you, and I will do so on my knees if that is what you require.”

She glanced up through the red fall of her hair, meeting his dark eyes. She had meant to soften her knees as if to drop, but his stare was piercing, startling; her stumble was less for show than she might have wished, and she found herself grateful for his steadying hand upon her elbow.

He did not speak, but tilted her head up with a hand beneath her chin, and let his gaze linger along her body. In another man she might have called it lust, and been embarrassed, but there was no heat to his examination. Even when he placed a hand upon her belly, brow faintly furrowed, she did not protest.

“If Reinart is willing for the switch, I’ll come with you, Lady Clegane.” For once, Maester Alyn’s voice was free of its usual biting tone. “I’ll have a tonic for you, come morning; you’ll take it twice a day, with food and as much water as you can stand to drink, and you will _rest_. And you will do so _now_.”

It was a clear dismissal when he turned back to his potion, but Sansa had been too giddy with victory to mind his rudeness. She had succeeded, and Rickon was protected. She only hoped her illness passed soon, so she would not suffer overmuch upon the journey to her new home.


	8. Almost Upon Us

The journey to the Dreadfort was many things—difficult and cold, primarily—but most of all, it was tedious. Sansa had hoped, with a train as small and carefully packed as theirs, that the journey would go quickly. Even the weather favored them, with days as bright and clear as they were cold.

She had known, as she ordered supplies packed and repacked and shifted and repacked again, that this would be no easy jaunt. Though her new home was not so very far from Winterfell by a raven’s wings, on foot and hoof was a far different matter.

In summer years they might have cut up through the hills, for in some ways Sansa was still a Stark at heart, and could not bring herself to fear the old hill clans. With Sandor’s skill at arms and more wildlings in their party than lords, even in these early days of winter she might have chanced it, if not for the letters she received from Jon quite regularly, hinting at dire things in the cold. She knew the Wall held fast, yet the sight of the snow-covered hills put dread into her heart.

They took themselves south instead, following the curves of the river and fording it below the mountains.  Sansa had not forgiven Sandor—not quite—but she knew that she would have to be the first to break their long silence. It rankled deeply, but her lady mother would not have approved of this sort of behavior in a marriage. And truly, Maester Alyn’s tonic had done wonders; she was no longer ill at all, though she remained quite tired, some days. She had even begun to truly fill out again, despite their travel rations. As Alayne, she had been gaunter, slighter, though not for lack of food. Now that the concern of Winterfell was over, and she had resolved to mend her marriage, and her illness had been cured, she began to think that it had been worry all along. Alyn had explained to her, one morning of their travels, that it was frequently a cause of ailments. She found the topic more interesting than she would have in her youth, when her mother’s stillroom and Maester Luwin’s lessons were places of utter dullness to her.

_(When she prays—rare enough these days—she doesn’t light a candle to the Maiden anymore. She’s not so foolish, now.)_

Now she almost struggled to tighten her dresses over her curving hips. Even her waist had grown a bit thicker, something the Sansa of even a few years past might have wept over. Winter did strange things to those sorts of thoughts, though; now she merely smiled, glad of any buffer from the cold.

She rode at Sandor’s side, more mornings than not. There were few enough horses, but he would not relegate Stranger to pulling a cart, nor would anyone want him to. No one in the party was fool enough to go near the big horse, even when the northern men indulged in drink. Sansa had not meant to ride at all, but when one of the horses had broken a leg, the remaining horse could not pull the cart alone. It had been difficult to break up the cart for wood and redistribute its supplies, but they had eaten well that night… and Sansa had a horse. He was not the sort of gentle palfrey she had ridden before; Sandor had checked the creature for any fault before he would allow her to ride it. Surprisingly, though the horse was beyond his prime, Sandor seemed to think he had been a courser many years before. Small, and built for speed, he seemed to be the only creature in the camp that would ignore Stranger’s antics.

The first time Sandor spoke to her in choice rather than necessity, perhaps a fortnight after leaving Winterfell, was to ask her what she had named it.

“Why, nothing, my lord,” she replied. “We may have to eat him, after all.”

She did not admit that she had named the sweet chestnut horse Florian, and was quickly beginning to adore him. She could not have asked for a better steed. He was the sturdiest, calmest horse she had met; even the direwolves did not worry him overmuch, though the half-grown pups frequently flanked Sansa and Sandor, panting happily as they trotted along.

It was as slow going regaining some sort of friendship with Sandor as their journey itself. Some days, he would speak to her quite gently, though perhaps not as sweetly as her father had spoken to her mother. Other days, he remained surly and taciturn, unwilling to engage even in small pleasantries. Regardless of his mood during the day, he still avoided her bed—rather, _their_ bed—unless to stumble into it reeking of wine. As tightly as supplies had been packed, she wondered where he managed to find so much of the stuff.

Indeed, if not for her handmaids, Sansa would have often felt quite lonely. Truly, the three wildling women who joined her in the evening and mornings were nothing like maids Sansa had had before. They were more like self-appointed keepers, playing the part of servant without any of the niceties of recognizing Sansa’s status. She had found their behavior distasteful, at first, but quickly began to enjoy the way they spoke to her—as if she were the lord amongst the camp, and not merely the lady… and yet as if they were utterly equal to her.

They would bring her bits of news about the camp, Merra often gossiping as she brushed Sansa’s hair—they made a great deal of her hair, brushing it out until it formed a wild mane of copper-- and as often as not asked her thoughts about the matter. It was little things, hardly worth thinking about—ought they camp an extra day and hunt, should they spare the time and supplies caring for a man injured when a wagon rolled. She could not help but wonder why, for the issues had always been taken care of by the next morning.

She wondered if perhaps she had been too forceful at Winterfell, but a few days of observation led her to believe that no one lacked respect for for her husband. It eased her mind a great deal to realize it, though she had only just recognized it as a worry.

Most evenings the wildling women would simply talk with her, telling her stories of their way of life beyond the wall. It was intriguing, though Sansa could hardly imagine some of the things they told her. Spearwives seemed a ridiculous idea, though she knew the women before her counted themselves as such. She even supposed she could believe it of Merra—dark-eyed and standing taller than Sansa herself—and certainly of Sall, who was far shorter but could easily heft a full chest of clothes that Sansa could not even budge when empty. Etreen, however, resembled Arya the last time Sansa had seen her: black hair and gray eyes, as slim and slight as a young boy. She could hardly imagine Etreen tumbling into a fight and even remaining unscathed, let alone arising from it victorious.

She told them so, one late evening. That had stopped them dead, and for a moment Sansa was worried she had offended them.

It was Etreen herself who giggled first, and moments later all three women had tumbled from the bed, gasping for breath between peals of laughter.

“Oh, Sansa,” Merra managed to choke out between laughs. “I would rather bear a sword against your brute of a husband than fight my dear sister.”

“I did not know she was your sister,” Sansa replied, for she could think of little else to say. She knew she looked foolish, eyes wide as she stared, but she could hardly fathom their wild laughter.

When the glint of metal flashed beside her, followed quickly by the deep _thunk_ as the knife struck wood, she felt as though the breath had been ripped from her lungs. The pavilion was silent. Etreen stood, at the far edge, a second knife held lightly between her fingers.

“Don’t have to be strong to fight, _my lady_. You could too, if you wanted.” The small woman tossed the knife into the air, its blade nearly brushing the roof before it fell again and she caught it by the handle. “I would think you ought to. Can’t always have Clegane around, can you, nor these mangy mutts.” She nudged Snowbloom with her foot, and the wolf grumbled a bit. Sansa breathed a bit easier, then; she knew the wolves would have been up in an instant, if she had been in danger.

Sansa turned without a word, and pulled the knife from her headboard. She knew little enough of blades, but this one felt good in her hands. She tried to imagine herself attacked, defeating her attacker. The thought seemed ridiculous.

She thought of Joffrey and his Kingsguard… of Marillion, and Baelish. She turned the knife over in her hands, tracing the etching on the wooden hilt with her fingertips.

“I think I would like that.”


	9. The Wolves Come

Sansa curled close to her gelding, narrowing her eyes against the snow. The wild winds seemed intent on whipping the stuff into her face. As much ice as snow, it had stung badly for some time. Now her face was as numb as her fingers, and she only hoped her horse was still following Stranger. 

It seemed as though the weather had followed her moods, for much of the journey had been sunny and bright. It had begun to sour only when Sandor had turned cruel again, ignoring her by day and seemingly avoiding her bed at all costs.

She had tried to soothe the sting of his baffling anger by reading and re-reading her letters from Rickon and Jon, but they were far from comforting. Though she had come to enjoy writing to Jon, finding herself more appreciative of that brother than she had ever imagined she would, he had little to say of happy things. At times he would write of memories, sharing moments of their youthful summer, but more often he wrote of the horrors past the Wall. She knew he still struggled with his command, though he never said it outright, and she worried that he fought his crows as much as the dead creatures in the snow. He said little of the injuries he had sustained from the Black Rebellion, as it was being called, but she was skilled at reading between the lines. Sansa knew the old wounds pained him, as much as did the hurt it had given his heart.

Rickon’s letters were worse. At first she had been delighted by them; Winterfell was doing well and his studies progressed wonderfully. After the first week, though, fewer of the letters were written in his own hand, most being dictated through Maester Reinart. Sansa was well aware that lords frequently used their maesters for that purpose, but she had hoped Rickon would learn writing as well as his siblings had. She had tried to impart how important it was to be able to read documents for himself, but when she urged him to resume his lessons, the ravens stopped for a whole fortnight.

When Rickon had finally written again, this time in his own hand, he had apologized, saying that Maester Reinart had told him how rude it had been to stop sending ravens at all. He wrote of how much more difficult Winterfell was without her, and how he had tried to keep his lessons and rule well, but to do both at the same time had proved beyond him. He had fallen quite ill, but assured her not to worry, for he was feeling much better now, and Reinart and some of the lords had done quite well for him during those weeks.

Sansa was expert at folding a letter neatly to write a reply—she had no more desire to waste their paper than their food—but she kept that letter, and read it often. Something about it nagged at her, but as the weather grew worse, she had little time to puzzled it out.

The storms had begun as they crossed the below the hills and turned north along the Weeping Water. They had pushed hard to reach their destination before the season turned worse, but the weather was fickle and cruel. First had come rainstorms, turning the snow to slush and mud. They had lost another cart in the first rainstorm, barely half its contents salvageable. At least the horses had not been ruined as well, for they needed them to carry what little remained of the food from that wagon.

For a week, no one had been dry. Fires had been impossible, and setting up camp had done little but ensure all their tents were as muddy as their boots.

Maester Alyn made a hero’s effort against the illnesses that the cold damp brought, Sansa his willing assistant, but before the storms turned to snow, more than half the camp complained of all manner of ailments. The horses fared no better, many of them succumbing to thrush. They had killed the poor lamed creatures rather than force them to stumble forward when they could hardly walk. She had hoped they would reach the Dreadfort without much loss, but it seemed as though that had been a foolish dream.

When the true snowstorms came, they were mere days from the Dreadfort. It had almost seemed to let up, finally, and Sansa ordered camp set with a lighter heart. Her relief was short-lived. Alyn had rushed to her when he heard of the command, and though she took offense at his rude tone and angry words, she could not help but forgive them when she understood his worry.

A blizzard was coming.

She never thought to question his knowledge; she simply sent a messenger to tell Sandor, and they pushed on.

Now she was lost in a world of white, the only heat that which came from the horse beneath her. Sansa had long since lost awareness of her limbs; she was simply a creature of cold. Her fingers were tight around the reins, but she could not have loosened them if she chose. Her gloves were as encrusted with ice as the mantle of her cloak. She could not have said where she was, not for all the lemon-cakes in Westeros. Her only thought was a faint hope that she would reach the Dreadfort before her lovely gelding fell beneath her; or, at least, that she would fade away from the cold before he did so.

It was only when Sandor pulled her down from Florian that she realized they had made it. Her people were still trudging into what appeared to be the great hall—much larger than Winterfell’s, by far. Sansa wanted to laugh when she realized Sandor—or perhaps Alyn—or perhaps herself, in her stupor—had ordered everyone into the hall, even the horses and carts.

That was before Sandor released her, taking away his lovely heat, and she saw the natives of her new home. Gaunt, fearful faces stared back at her, in a hall empty of decoration and barren of fire.

Sansa turned away, tugging her gloves off and tucking her fingers beneath the saddle of her gelding. The relative heat of him burned her ice-cold hands, but she leaned against him, hoping no one would see her weep.


	10. In The Dark

Sansa curled her fingers tightly around a steaming cup of weak tea, refusing to look beyond the amber liquid within. It didn’t keep her from hearing the servant’s dire words, nor diffuse the anger she could feel radiating from her husband, but it did provide small comfort in its own way. At least she could feel her fingers and toes, though her whole body ached fiercely.

“Fucking _lords_ … fucking _useless!”_ Sandor rose from his seat beside her, striding to the window of the small study they occupied. Sansa glanced up at the man seated across from her, and had to hide a smile at his round eyes and open mouth. It seemed she was accustomed to the Hound’s outbursts, for she no longer found his anger disconcerting (at least, when it was not directed at her).

“My… my lord…”

Sandor spun on his heel, jabbing a finger out, his face a mask of frustration. The grimace his mouth twisted into made the burned half of his face all the more disconcerting, Sansa was sure, for the poor servant. She really ought to step in.

“Even after those cowardly fools ran, you could have prepared! Did the Bolton bastards flay your minds instead of your hides? Winter was coming and now it is here, and you’ve all starved for the lack of a wit between you.”

 _Winter is coming_. Sansa could not hide the smile at that; her husband was as much a wolf as she at times. It faded, though when she recalled his behavior on the road. She had thought him hers again, for that one brief moment in the great hall, held close against the heat of his body… but he had hardly looked at her in the hours since.

She sighed, and lowered the tea, untouched.

“My lord. They have been without direction. You are not accustomed to the running of a keep, I suppose, but regardless of what should have been done, it is our duty to bring it to rights. Castellan Edric, where is the household ledger kept? I would  know how our provisions stand.” Sansa carefully hid the unseemly satisfaction she gained from Sandor’s reaction. She knew he did not take kindly to being reminded of his lower birth, although he himself seemed to bear it as a shield; and in truth, he _was_ trying. It was no fault of his own that he hadn’t the manners of a lord…

(-- _unfair,_ whispered the voice that sounded a touch like Alayne, _he could have helped at Winterfell_.

That whisper never bothered her. It was usually right.

The one that murmured things like _A little too much Dornish sour, hmm?_ in Littlefinger’s silken tones was the one that made her sleep uneasy.)

…well, it was little concern. There were more important things to look into. She rose, waiting for a response.

 Edric preened a little, as she knew he would, receiving a title above his previous station. He had more likely been the butler or reeve, or perhaps even the steward, for he seemed to know the workings of the castle well. She had little to choose from in the ranks of those who remained here; giving the man a place of pride would hopefully endear her somewhat to the servants of the keep.

“Lady Clegane, I am loathe to tell you that the ledger was taken, along with many other things, when the B- er, when Lord Bolton left the castle. We have… little food. Much of it was taken, when the nobility fled, and more with the servants that followed. I assure you that we who stayed behind are more loyal than those unseemly thieves! My lady, I can show you the storerooms, what little remains…”

Sansa gave him a tight smile and a nod, already regretting her generosity. _You are cowards and fools, you who stayed; you are only here for lack of safety elsewhere_. Well, there was little to be done about it but make the best of the situation. At least she had her people from Winterfell, who had proven trustworthy and competent; perhaps they could salvage the Dreadfort’s remnants.

She followed her new castellan out of the study, pausing only to turn to Sandor for a moment. He watched her, mouth drawn tight in what she could only assume was anger. She ignored it; he could sulk when they had a moment to breathe.

“You know as much as I about the Boltons,” she murmured, pitching her voice low so that the man in the corridor would not hear. “There are rooms below this keep that I would not see, my lord, not for all the gold in the Iron Bank. You are ill-tempered of late, and I will not ask you why, but I will ask as your wife and lady—if you care for the health of my mind and soul, ser, you will have those rooms utterly deprived of their previous functions. If there is a single flayed skin in this horrid place by the time I am allowed to sleep, I fear I will go mad.”

She slipped from the room without giving him a moment to respond. It seemed as though that was the only way to get her say in, sometimes.

* * *

_She tried to pull away, but the little sparrows pecked at her and her skin was bleeding, bleeding, as copper as her hair, and she wished that Littlefinger would just let her go, for he held her hair, and nothing lay beneath her but the Moon Door. If only they weren’t all laughing, but they were, they were, Rickon and Sandor and Sweetrobin and Lysa and mother and father and Robb and Arya and Jon and Joffrey and Cersei and Jeyne and Petyr most of all, laughing with lion’s-teeth in their mouths, they would all eat her up, she would never escape, how she wished Littlefinger would just let her fall…_

_Brandon crouched beside Baelish, and he did not laugh. He looked serious, as he sometimes did when he was very young and trying to piece the world together._

_“Brandon, Bran, oh, make them let me go. I am so tired and the birds are hurting me.”_

_He frowned, and the laughter stopped. He smiled, and all the rest were swept away._

_“Sister, not all will bite. You think those the teeth of lions, but some of them are wolves. Listen, sister, listen; when the wind is in the trees, come and find me. I love you, sister; go and run.”_

_She could not refuse him; she ran, and felt the dark earth beneath her paws. It was good._

* * *

Somehow the Dreadfort was a more daunting proposition than Winterfell had been. Sansa couldn’t decide if it was the reputation of the place, or the fact that Winterfell had felt like home, even half-destroyed. The Dreadfort was whole and sound, but its people had no joy; they were the beaten dregs of Bolton rule.

The provisions remaining were just enough, spread thin, to keep them all for a few weeks. The wildlings were hunting like mad, and yet she’d still had to order most of the horses killed for meat only a fortnight past. They’d spared the five best, though her Florian could not be among them. She wept for him, but a gelding would be no use… though she had refused the stew every evening since.

Stranger they kept, and the four best mares, hoping that a good breeding herd could be established. The grass was sparse, but the vents in the earth kept more than the castle warm; the heat meant a few of the fields remained faintly green, able to support their tiny herd.

She walked the halls, starting early in the morning, often wandering until late in the evening. One of her wildling maids often accompanied her, or one of the wildling men, for they did not trust the Dreadfort servants.

“Shifty,” was all Merra would say when Sansa asked. She hadn’t the heart to explain that beaten servants usually seemed that way—or rather, the stomach to listen to another lecture on wildling issues with nobility. She couldn’t complain, anyway; if there was the chance of something going wrong… Sansa was quite good with a knife, now, but she felt ungainly of late, and did not trust her life to her own hands.

The castellan had been unpleasantly accurate about the situation of food. Little remained in the massive keep. Just thinking about the situation was tiring, but Sansa was determined to do her part. Sandor still rarely spoke to her, and he seemed to frighten most of the Dreadfort servants, but he had gathered a likely force of men-at-arms to guard the keep, and trained them daily.

Maester Alyn would berate her at breakfast for her dark eyes, and when he found her wandering late at night, carrying little more than a lantern, but she paid him no mind. She could not seem to get to sleep, and it was more productive to look for any potential supplies than sit playing with her needlework.

Sansa lit a candle to every one of the Seven when they found the components of glass-gardens intact in a dark storeroom, and nearly danced in gleefulness when they stumbled upon a boarded-up room that turned out to be full of barrels of apples and fish. Wrinkled, mealy apples, to be sure, and heavily salted fish that left a lingering odor on the dress she had been wearing that day, but the discovery of food was worth the price.

The wildlings thought everything was a cause for celebration, but after a month of little but aging meat, the feast of fish seemed as grand a party as Sansa’s wedding had been. She found she could not tolerate the salty soup that had been devised, for it had a scent that turned her stomach, but she gladly ate the apples and a bit of bread, and clapped along when someone suggested music. The songs were bawdy, but cheerful.

Even Sandor smiled a little, begrudgingly, when impromptu dancing began that evening. Sansa outright laughed, and could hardly decline when Etreen pulled her into the dance. It was a delightful whirl of color, a dance she never knew the steps to, and she found she didn’t care. No one else seemed to; it was all a matter of bouncing and turning madly in a giant circle, and her head spun with it. The whole thing was more fun than she’d had in ages. For a moment, Sansa felt her true nineteen years, the weight of decisions lifted from her.

It slipped away in a flash when she stumbled against Sall, her limbs suddenly weak. It seemed as though the world was tumbling about her, dark at the edges. She tried to fight her way back through, but it pulled and sucked at her like sticky mud, and Sansa could climb free.

She tumbled into darkness, falling without end.


	11. No True Knights

_She was thirteen and following a crow through Winterfell. It led her on a merry chase, through the halls and round the walls, and down below into the crypt. Sansa had been scared of that place once, but not now. So dark, so warm, like the balmiest day of summer. She chased it for miles beneath the earth, and up, along the Walls of the world and when it stopped, Bran stood before her._

_“I don’t want to,” she cried, for he was going to make her go back._

_She never wanted to go back._

_“Sister,” he said, and smiled._

_And pushed._

* * *

Sansa woke with a deep shiver, buried beneath a mound of furs and blankets. She could feel a wolf pressed close behind her, the soft panting a counterpoint to the argument going on beyond her line of sight. She considered making a noise, to let them know she was awake; but, after all, it was quite rude of whoever it was to be so very loud when someone was trying to sleep. It was far more sensible to curl a bit tighter beneath the covers and bask in the warmth. She hoped she might be able to return to sleep, but it seemed as though that luxury was to be denied her.

Well, if they wouldn’t be quiet, she would simply listen. Sansa endeavored to be still, her only movement reaching her hand, ever so slightly, to pet Lady’s head.

Sansa shivered again, and Snowbloom nudged her hand with a soft whine. Suddenly, the blankets didn’t feel quite so warm, nor the air hold such a hint of summer; it wasn’t servings or siblings raising their voices, but her husband and maester.

“I will not—“ Maester Alyn’s voice held more than its usual astringent tone. Sansa had always thought him brusque, but she had never heard the quaver of fury in his words as she did now.

“Lying, traitorous bastard—what’ve you been giving her? What’s in these damned little bottles?” Sandor’s voice, too, was strange, hardly more than a snarl. The dreamy remnant of her childish self tried to cower in fear beneath the blankets, but that was an indulgence Lady Clegane could ill afford. She took a deep breath, and another, and slid out from the covers. The world spun, keeping her seated on the edge of the bed. Well, it was a start.

She had arisen just in time to see her husband pitch a small bottle of her tonic across the room, narrowly missing maester Alyn- whom she had not expected such agility from, she had to admit, for she herself would not have been able to dodge it so neatly.

“My lords,” she began, and coughed a little. Her throat seemed so very dry, and the room would not quite stay in place. It was terribly disconcerting.

The attention of both men seemed glued to her the moment she spoke. She could not help but blush, keenly aware that her linen shift revealed more than propriety might strictly allow. She’d had so little time to alter it…

Oh—her mind had wandered, for it had only seemed a moment, and now Sandor knelt before her, his warm, large hands covering her own. He looked at her as if to speak, but the words seemed to die in his throat, and he simply looked at her.

“Lady Clegane, it is important that we speak.” Alyn had not moved from across the room, but his glance at Sandor was more pointed than a fine dagger. Sansa turned her hands over and curled her fingers against her husband’s palms.

“Speak, then. Anything said to me, my lord husband has right to hear.” She expected annoyance from him, but he seemed more bemused than anything. She had begun to trust Alyn, but he was such a very strange man.

“Truly? Then _you_ ought to have spoken before now—but that is hardly my business.” His tone was not quite cold, but it seemed to sting a little, all the same. “Lady Clegane, if you do not eat, do not sleep, and insist upon wandering the darkest, ill-warmed corners of the keep at all hours, your child may well not be so lucky the next time you collapse.”

How was it that breathing went? In, and out, and in again, she thought, but it seemed so difficult, of a sudden.

“You asked that I accompany you for my knowledge of medicine, Sansa Stark, but it does _no good at all_ if you won’t listen!”

It was much easier to watch Alyn stride from the room (perhaps _storm_ would be more accurate, but she always tried to give people the benefit of the doubt), much easier indeed, than turn and meet Sandor’s eyes. His fingers gripped her hands so very tightly that they began to ache.

“Little bird…”

“He’s right, of course, I should have been more careful. I must have half-starved myself. I’ll do better, my lord, I will.” Snowbloom’s nose nudged against the small of her back, cold and wet through the thin cloth. Sandor’s wolf, in the hall, whined to be let in, to join the pack, and Snowbloom slipped from the bed to paw at the wood of the door.

“ _Little bird-_ “

“It’s only that I’ve grown again, and not had time to let out my dresses, and the stays can be so tight at times—all that spinning—“

“Sansa! _”_

She shivered. The Hound’s voice could be so deep and menacing; when he spoke that way, she could not help but so very small and fragile…

She turned her face to his, and met his eyes, and could not have named for all the stars in the sky what she saw there. Once, a year and some past, she would have said she had broken the Hound. Now she wondered how she could have imagined such a thing, for here before her is a truly shattered man.

“...it was so much easier _not_ to be… I would have told you, truly. It’s only, it’s just… oh, my love…” If only she could reach inside of him and fix the broken spot, but she could not imagine what it was, and he just stared at her, his gray eyes unfathomable in their pain.

It seemed as though an eternity passed, simply looking at each other, for Sansa could not think of what to say. She was usually so good with words, but they seemed pointless, here. Words could not avail her now. She could only wait, and in truth it could only have been moments before he spoke, his voice as thick as if he’d been at the wine.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, little bird, you’ve no idea how… how deeply…” Sandor bowed his head against their twined hands, his shoulders shaking slightly. For a moment she thought he wept, but no, that horrible rasp was simply laughter, choked out as if every breath cost him a king’s fortune. “Only fucking good thing I’ve managed to have, and I went and broke it all. Hell, can’t even take credit for it—you asked for me, you damned fool, you stupid, ridiculous little bird.”

“I am not a fool!” Sansa ripped her hands from beneath his, furious that he would be so rude.

“Sansa, you _were_ a fool. An idiot. A blind little girl. And then you saw, and did the smartest thing you could, but… you could have asked, I swear I would have stayed away. I—I thought I couldn’t, that I only came to you when I couldn’t help it, but—“ he laughed again, or sobbed; she could not tell between them, “—I could, for I stayed away, didn’t I, all this time. I could have done it all along.”

Sansa reached one hand out, stroking his hair cautiously. “My lord, I fear I am as foolish as you say, for I truly cannot begin to fathom what you’re speaking of.

The Hound’s massive frame shuddered, and he rose from his knees in one fluid motion, grasping her wrists and half-pinning her to the bed before she realized his intent.

Snowbloom growled, once, but did not move.

“I _speak_ of you and _knives_ , girl, and the only thing you’ve any need to defend against. I’m here to protect you from anything else.” He released her and slipped back to his knees, his whole body limp, as if his bones had melted. “I was never worthy of you, but you made this happen; I could protect you from anything but the bastard you married, little bird.” He reached to the small table beside her bed without raising his eyes, grasping the small knife that lay there. She recognized it as the one she carried with her, and tensed, barely managing to stifle the small whimper that struggled to escape her. She could not stop the strangled intake of breath, unladylike as it was, when he pressed the handle into her palm, grasping her wrist and bringing the blade to his throat.

“Please,” he whispered, in the softest voice Sansa had ever heard him use.


	12. Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a re-write of the "original" chapter 12. I've finally started working on this again, and gotten it back on track to where it was originally intended to be.
> 
> For those that like (or want to see) the previous, somewhat sappy :) ending, it'll be posted and linked here.

            The clatter of steel against stone resounded through the room. Sansa tried to rise, but she could not seem to stop the shaking of her limbs, and feared she would tumble to the floor. Sandor knelt unmoving, as if he were a statue, a penitent man set in stone.

Sansa leaned forward and curled her trembling fingers into the collar of his doublet. It seemed a trial to think, to do anything more than breathe, but something must be done―she could not let this pass.

            “You imagine that I desire protection from you, ser.” She spoke without meaning to, her voice low and tight, choked with fury. She listened as if the words belonged to someone else. “I have done nothing but build you castles in the snow, defer to you whenever I am able. You are a lord’s son and a finer man than any knight. What is it that I have done, that you put that blade in my hand? I honor you as my lord and you treat me like a child. You have my respect and love, Sandor, how could you not? Do you imagine I have survived all the years of my life to let your fear deter me?” She let her fingers trail up, tracing the rough burns and smoother skin alike. She was still now, and it was he that trembled, refusing to meet her eyes. It was as if the Hound and burned away, and only a small boy knelt before her.

            “You think so ill of yourself, what must you think of a woman that loves you? …indeed, you think I don’t, that you have hurt me somehow. You think my babe the product of rape. You think that I ought to love it less, and you not at all.” That seemed to startle him, for he glanced up, eyes widening in shock when he met the fury in hers.

            “No―you are―“

            “A little fool, you say, an idiot little bird. If I were less a lady, my lord, I would have slapped you for the insult. Do you look at me and see Sansa Stark, betrothed of Joffrey Lannister, trembling beneath your knife? I have been so many people since then, ser, and I will not allow you to take them away. You think me so _weak_ , still, I see it in you. I am not. I tell you now that I am not. Protect my life, Sandor, but leave me my mind. It is not that of a scared little summer-born fool. Winter has come, you spoke the words yourself; winter has come, and I am a Stark as much as a Clegane, and for all the love you profess to hold for me, you can never change that fact.”

            She stopped speaking as suddenly as she had begun, feeling alone within her mind for the first time in years. Someone else had begun that speech; Lady Sansa Clegane of the Deadfort finished it, and as she did she knew it to be true. She had carried Sansa Lannister and Alayne and so many others with her for so long, it felt strange to hear the truth from her own lips.

            “…little bird, I’m no lord. I don’t know how to be what you want.” And yet, there was still the broken boy to fix. She should _want_ to fix him. The thought should not turn her stomach so. She reached for Alayne, for Sansa Stark, for softness and comfort, and found only snow-cold steel, praying it could not be heard in her voice.

            “Start with the wine, perhaps?  Or refraining from slaughter in the practice yard. Or seeing to your keep, your land, your people, your wife... _my lord_. Stop carrying the Hound about you like a tattered cloak. Does it comfort you, to be feared, reviled? Do you hope they think of the Riverlands, when they pass you in the halls?” Sansa tried to relax against the pillows, to lower her voice, but her muscles remained rigid. Some small part of her  mind wondered who she was, now, this statue of seething fury, snarling at a man who could snap her to halves without a thought. She'd meant to soothe him, but even as she spoke she could see how he dragged the shards of his rage together, something like the solid armor it had once been.

            “I displease the lady.” There, that tone, that soft, acidic growl. The Hound again. She should despair. It should not thrill her, should not make her want to grin in mad triumph. _Softness_. Soothing.

        “You displease everyone. You will displease this child, if you do not become the man we all need. _Please_ ,” and finally, finally she felt some of the tautness slip away. Knives indeed. He was a fool, a terrible fool, and though she had to swallow back her screams and tuck them carefully into the place she had once kept Sansa Stark to do it, she still cared for him.  Sansa sighed, feeling her ribs ache with the shift of it. She'd almost forgotten her fall, in all of this. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she leaned forward, drawing her legs up to her chest and resting her hand on Sandor's shoulder. He trembled, and she wondered with what emotion.

            “Even a second son is trained for lordship, Sandor. I know that. Four brothers, ser; I _know_ that. And you were a Lannister sword since youth, I know that as well. Surely you know some of it. A wretched, lion-cruel portion, but for all their awfulness I never heard of the Westerlands suffering, before the winter and war. You must have seen Tywin, Jaime, even Tyrion--”

            Sandor moved so gracefully that he was halfway across the room before she registered him shrugging her hand from his shoulder. He paused, a hand resting against the earth-dark wood of the door. Everything seemed dreamlike, for a moment, and Sansa found herself thinking that he seemed like the Stranger, all in soft blacks and grays. He turned, and all her attention was caught by his eyes. She recognized the look in them, and fancied she caught a hint of green reflecting from their depths.

            “If _that's_ the lordship you want, my lady, you'll have it.” He grinned, a sharp and humourless smile, all his teeth on display. “The Hound won't be bested by the Imp.”

            Sansa tried to roll from the bed, but the blankets and furs tangled her limbs, heavy against her. She felt as though she were trying to climb through sticky mud, her heart racing though she could not place why. Moments passed like hours, and the door slammed long before she struggled out to stand beside her bed, panting. Sweat rolled gently from the line of her hair, making a soft trail down her cheek. Sansa tasted it as it passed her mouth, as she had done with tears as a child, and wondered why she didn't weep.

 


End file.
